Waterfall
by Vashtijoy
Summary: When Light's away, Misa dresses up in his clothes.


When Light's away, Misa plays.

Perhaps _playing_ isn't a good word for what she does. Misa-Misa is adored by the public in a way Light will never be. Even when he's at university, the taskforce chatter and clatter in the next room, looking for Kira. And yet she's alone. She rarely sees Light, and she misses him. She tells herself she doesn't mind that he seems so preoccupied, so bored and unhappy. She knows he's a good person - the best of people - so surely he must struggle with everything he's done, the way that she does? All those niggling little doubts she'll never admit, as she kills over and over and over, with a determination she never articulates. Ten thousand people, fifty thousand, a hundred thousand. _If I do this, Light will love me more._

Somehow, Misa thinks Light would disapprove of what she does when she's alone.

The downstairs wardrobe is large, but not excessively so, and Misa has no call to touch it. Everything in it belongs to Light, and is hung in a protective cover, one grey plastic sheath after another. Misa has an eye for what looks good on him that matches his own, and he's slowly developing a more adult wardrobe of carefully chosen pieces. It's one of the few areas in which he'll allow her to influence him; for all that he's always been unobtrusively careful about the way he looks, he'd still call fashion a girl's concern.

She showers and bathes, removing every trace of perfume or paint. She combs out her hair, and dresses in underlayers, in leggings or tights, camisoles or tank tops. Then she goes to that wardrobe and chooses a hanger at random - not one from the far left (suits and formalwear), or the far right (casual garb - pants on the right, tops on the left). No, she goes to the centre, knowing that what she'll come away with will be one of Light's dress shirts. Some are crisp cotton; a few are silk; some are carefully blended so that the fabric shimmers and shines. Today, it's a wool/silk blend, finely woven with the tiniest of naps. When she pulls it on, it's like wearing kittens.

She doesn't do up the buttons. Instead, she holds the shirt around her, keeping its softness close without crushing the fabric in a way Light would notice. It smells ever so slightly chemical, from the dry cleaner; it's part of the scent she associates with him. She smells it when he comes in late at night, and she hugs him. Sometimes he'll sigh and ignore her, and sometimes he'll indulge her with a bemused air, as if, for all his intellect, he can't quite process what she wants. And on rare occasions, he'll have a good day, with some little thing falling into place, and he'll smile just for her, and explain events in exacting detail, because she's such a perfect audience for his unrivalled brilliance. Misa lives for moments like that.

The nap of the shirt is warm against her skin. The tail drifts behind her, the way she drifts around the apartment. She coos to the lovebird, all alone in that cold wire cage. She wishes Light was less busy, and she knows he can't be any other way. It's a lot of responsibility, after all, building a beautiful new world where everyone can be safe and happy. But she can't help wanting them to be just a boy and a girl in love. She wants him to carry her next to his skin all day. She wants to feel she's part of him, the way he is her. And she feels bad for having thoughts like that. Light loves her more than anything. He just works so hard, and is so tired, and so frustrated with the taskforce holding him back.

It's enough, she tells herself, and Ryuk, and the bird. Before she weeps a little, she's sure to hang the shirt back up.

In the air vent, the tiny hidden camera whirrs at a level beyond human hearing, and monitors her every move.

* * *

When Light dies, Misa donates all his clothes to charity, still in those grey plastic wrappers - the casual pants, the long-sleeved tops with the high necks and v-necks, the ties and suits, that black jacket he'd never worn again after his father died. She even sends his underwear and nightclothes for recycling, neatly folded in boxes, wrapped in tissue paper. He'd have hated to see them thrown into plastic bags, after all.

But she keeps the shirts.


End file.
